MineKinds
by King Spoot
Summary: Many minds are necessary to forge a world. When a reality collapses, its souls are left to be claimed by outside deities. Neutral craves such spirits and works to bring new life to balance Mekkan. One soul, a Steve by name and race, is what she finds. [-A TwoKinds story with a Minecraft influence - might switch it to an official crossover later-]
1. Prologue

**Author's note: **A little while back I began writing a Two Kinds story influenced with some Minecraft themes. I wrote myself into a corner since I made the mistake of building up flash over little substance. I saw the main character becoming a Gary Stu and hated it. Skimming through the two respective Wikis, I remembered passages about the three masks, the End and dark mana, which inspired this new attempt. Perhaps the former story will become a sequel later on, but for now, here is my attempt at telling a sort of precursor to Two Kinds based on why the races formed and an idea of how Mekkan took shape. That, and I have been listening to Age of Empires music again, so expect a few subtle themes from that, because Wololo.

**As an extra note: **I may edit this later on, depending on how the Muses slap me.

**I do not own Two Kinds or Minecraft.**

**...Or Age of Empires.**

* * *

**]-o-[ MineKinds ]-o-[**

* * *

**Fire storm's from nether's rollin'. Lord's callin' from Aether throne**  
**Holdin' up 'cause sun's a fallin'. Gone settlin', I'm on my own**  
**Four Demons and Jackals comin'. Oh, quickly, fetch by bow, no,**  
**Our Golem's unable to hold 'em. Oh, daddy, I'm on my own**

**Four dead now all have risen. More clawin' through the door**  
**Honest men have turned to killin'. Good men I've known before**  
**Oh, daddy, they're all bleedin'. Over where they fell you low, no,**  
**Oh, daddy, I hear 'em screamin'. Oh, daddy, I'm on my own**

**Na nanana, na-na na-na. Lord's callin' from Aether throne  
Na nanana, na-na na-na. Oh, daddy, I'm on my own**

**]-o-[ **_**Working chant, sung to the rhythm of a lost song **_**]-o-[**

* * *

**]-o-[ ****_Prologue_**** ]-o-[**

The three masks held an air of superiority amongst one another, competing as proper gentlemen in a dual over the survival of their mortal children, and thus themselves. A complex ritual of war and peace usually tested the mettle of these deities, each one hoping to prove who created the perfect form while refraining from banishing the other two beloved siblings. Ephemural, in all her controlled chaos and poetically harsh neutrality, never admitted to copying the perfect form from the mask of humanity and infused it with the feral beauty of animals, while that sibling swore it did not steal designs from the mythological original plain of existence that first saw life. Bits and pieces of fantasy and storytelling were lifted from the first group of realms, where the spirits of each unique world fell to their own sins and twisted into nightmarish creatures of shadow and fire. Believing the first plain to have fallen into nothingness, it surprised the presumably female mask to learn not all spirits became demonic.

Of all the forces in the universe, magic reigns in creation and destruction, rivaled only by the enigmatic principles of psionics. Pure mana flows through the new realities, augmenting the minds and bodies of its users, provided a mind has the capability of harnessing its full effects without suffering mental damage or corruption. Dark mana, in literal and figurative form, is abused mana, straining purity into hostile taint. Perhaps there are those who know not dark mana as evil, having minds capable of handling such raw power, but for even the Masks of Mekkan it is too much to comprehend. No more is this apparent than the shadow dividing the world in half.

A ring of dark mana, a testament to the greed and wars of mankind and deities, separated the remaining semi-pure continent of Mekkan from the rest of the world. Beyond its shadowy veil, no one, not even the powerful Mask the Keidran regarded as Evil, found it wise to approach. What lay beyond it no one really knew, as most figured it to be the underworld made manifest. What was for certain, at least to the Masks, is that their deceased siblings crafted many powerful beings before the black wave of tainted mana swept over the land. How or why the half-completed apocalypse came to being is presumably the work of deities attempting to harness the full potential of mana, and their children were mostly lost to the chaos. Even the almighty Statue deity named Apollus, crafted of marble by the highest god, counterpart to the ivory Masks, vanished in the blackness along with the majority of races, including the various forms of Humanity.

Humanity, firstborn of the world, never arrived to conquer Mekkan. They never set sail under a false claim of manifest destiny, for it is only a story supported by the Templar, shared amongst Keidran, that the men of no fur landed, took hospitality for granted, and declared themselves rightful heirs to the land. It took but a few centuries to pass in order to successfully wipe the bitter memory of their fallen gods' Armageddon from the populace, as books burned and elder storytellers passed away. For those who survived, the Masks restructured in their own image of pale faces, wide eyes and pointed chins. Those who did not were lost at sea, or simply collapsed when the dark mana overtook their homes. Even Ephemural played a hand in their recreation, eventually regretting assisting such violent beings who murdered and raped her Keidran children, yet never stopped the heated search to find the original forms that all life, whether Human or Bastitin, came from.

Yet, as it turned out, the ring of black mana did not overtake all areas of the other continents.

Ephemural practically felt giddy over the discovery. Rarely did the broken outskirts yield such priceless treasures of spirits and minds. At best, a deity might find skeletal remains or a charred foundation, the remnants of the world's firstborn societies, but never an actual preserved domain. Thankfully, a concept arguable to anyone else, the Mask arrived before the land had been fully overtaken by black magic, as the fluctuating ring routinely exposed segments of broken land. That, of course, intrigued her, as not even her two living siblings could ever hope to survive more than a few seconds in the ring. How could anything, at all, save the original deity, live so close to the area of death, let alone within it for several years at a time? Usually, the other two masks expected her to be disturbingly chipper, finding victory in every failure and quickly learning from it. To see their sister excuse herself perplexed them, yet they thought nothing more on it as she stepped out of the Natural Realm founded for _their_ whim, seeking out the precious discovery. This secret she kept, plotting to copy lost technology and the creativity of the first thinking minds, so her children might gain an advantage over the magical proficiency of Humanity and the militant organization of Basitin. Nothing but dust and echoes awaited her, with the land burned to a ball of glass and dust, the tragically neutral peace of it all appearing both disturbingly sensual and as a bitter disappointment.

That is until she floated over a glistening, ashen shell.

**]-o-[**

There used to be a joke shared amongst clergymen that all life began as an egg, the concept stemming from how the deities created the races. There is some truth to this idea, as a god will sacrifice a great deal of power to form a protective vessel to store and culminate ideas. It came as no surprise that the predecessors to the Masks relied on this technique to develop the founding race, but it proved interesting to discover he mimicked the 'god egg' to likewise safeguard a being. Partially embedded in the swirling dust hued grey and tan, the construct had managed to survive the blasting extremes wrought by the chaotic storm, save superficial damage caused to the spaced plating guarding an inner shell of black steel and clear crystal.

The Mask drew a shadowy finger across the marble form of the egg's outermost shell. "They were busy after all," she quietly mused in regards to the deceased deities, appraising the unnatural construct of natural materials. "Interesting. It's so... interesting."

The three Mask deities always knew the now-deceased Statue gods were wondrous craftsmen, but the egg's design, both simple in form and complex in layering, stood out either as a work of a genius or that of a madman. While not enemies to the Masks, the Statues went to extremes keeping their formulas of life secret. Ephemural recalled well Dalmas, Mask of Light, entering Apollus and Minevia's abode, and floating back with his face shattered. Never again did a Mask attempt to steal information from the Statues, despite the lingering temptation to augment their children with such power. A strong, healthy race, whose spirits matured over time, would reunite with the creating deity and make it all the more powerful. The god of Mekkan's Humans attempted to mimic the Apollian Humans to a fairly successful degree, and Ephemural knew he would seek out any resource to fully complete the so-called perfect form.

Peering into the vessel, the Keidran Mask held her spiritual breath in excitement. It had earth hued skin and hair, a far cry from their flawless, pale forms. Its twitching body, encased in a blue gel not dissimilar to amniotic fluid, had a fuller form, from a thicker jaw to a noticeable layer of fat and muscle unheard of in their slim culture. Yet, it was unmistakable, that tiny creature's shape pierced and bound by dozens of metallic, clay based and wooden umbilicals, was the basic human template by which all modern races were based upon.

For lack of a better term, this Neanderthal was Human, albeit not related to the ones the Masks invented. So complex was its genome that until she spiritually broke the code, the body provided no valuable material beyond existing as an unsolved Rosetta of purity. Until she knew what made the being, what created it from simplicity of earth and clay, it was impossible to transfer the body's essence into future Keidran. That was the goal. That was why she worked tirelessly to seek out the lost pieces of Humanity before the highest Mask, 'her' ruler, picked up the pieces of a shattered world, recast it in brilliant colors, and named it Mekkan. More importantly, it provided a means to sway the Mekkan Humans to her whim. Is not pure neutrality when all races coexist without war, after all?

War was the last thing on the Mask's mind, her focus dedicated to whisking the egg away. She paid no heed to whispering spirits, lost to the collapsing half of the world, and idly batted away any visage of mist and echoes which wandered too close. Neutral would not be bothered by any of them, from mothers' ghosts crying for lost children, to the Dreamscape's mind whispering in perceived horror, _**My Brother**_.

**]-o-[ And thus begins our story ]-o-[**


	2. Chapter One

It is to be said that the qualities of races rarely differs when personalities are compared. The elders view the lesser society, both within and without, in egotistical contempt, as they hide away sins via needless complication of language and art. _Spirit_, the Wolf Keidran may compare to the Human, _is such an ugly word for the beauty of existence_, as he shrugs away the notion that a Human _feels_ the same way he does over one's soul despite not honoring it as a longer word. Beauty and horror become one and the same and differ little between two groups of people. An enticed Human male is no different than that of a Wolf packleader, both as drunkards gazing at breasts, enjoying the strength and life of a woman's abdomen if warriors, and as philosophers treating the curve of feet as a tasteful taboo. One and the same are artificers and master jewelers, working related materials and arguing that they are actually different, as if one carries less financial or intrinsic value than the other. Even the more sentient of feral Keidran, when vices are compared, end up following the same protocols of culture and war, with the exception of chest and navel fetishes being replaced with sadomasochistic torture and gore.

No, the difference between cultures is superficial at best. Even the Fox townships occasionally admit to being no better (or worse) than their Tiger tribe relatives. Thus explains their penchant for working diligently to difference themselves from the cliches of other Keidran, right down to ethics and artwork. Earthen mounds boasting roofs and marble steps, the ultimate compliment and counterpart to Tiger huts and Human fortresses, fit effortlessly with the rules of having a common foundation of society that allows unique constructs to differentiate the beasts from one another. Of all races, the Fox Keidran take pride in the dreary iron castings about their homes, instead of being so emotionally negative about it. To suffer well is a happy thought, uniting those escaped souls who would normally go crazy after being tortured to near insanity by Templar hands. Such finesse of inventing their own culture cannot be overlooked, right down to negating the differences between military and people in a tasteful manner, countering the ideas of Human conscription and Wolf warrior-states. As the soldier argues he defends the nation and the militiaman argues he prevents invasion, the Fox townships encourage every citizen to be armed under law of common sense and willfully organize under separate fighting forces, dissimilar to both the rank-and-file soldiers and versatile privateers. Perhaps it is why they, of all Keidran, suffer the fewest along human borders and flaws in leadership, as each citizen carries an air of being both an honest individual and capable shadow-walker, their individuality being far too precious to give up.

It is to be said that the qualities of races rarely differs when personalities are compared. The elders view the lesser society, both within and without, in egotistical contempt, as they hide away sins via needless complication of language and art. _Spirit_, the Wolf Keidran may compare to the Human, _is such an ugly word for the beauty of existence_, as he shrugs away the notion that a Human _feels_ the same way he does over one's soul despite not honoring it as a longer word. Beauty and horror become one and the same and differ little between two groups of people. An enticed Human male is no different than that of a Wolf packleader, both as drunkards gazing at breasts, enjoying the strength and life of a woman's abdomen if warriors, and as philosophers treating the curve of feet as a tasteful taboo. One and the same are artificers and master jewelers, working related materials and arguing that they are actually different, as if one carries less financial or intrinsic value than the other. Even the more sentient of feral Keidran, when vices are compared, end up following the same protocols of culture and war, with the exception of chest and navel fetishes being replaced with sadomasochistic torture and gore.

No, the difference between cultures is superficial at best. Even the Fox townships occasionally admit to being no better (or worse) than their Tiger tribe relatives. Thus explains their penchant for working diligently to difference themselves from the cliches of other Keidran, right down to ethics and artwork. Earthen mounds boasting roofs and marble steps, the ultimate compliment and counterpart to Tiger huts and Human fortresses, fit effortlessly with the rules of having a common foundation of society that allows unique constructs to differentiate the beasts from one another. Of all races, the Fox Keidran take pride in the dreary iron castings about their homes, instead of being so emotionally negative about it. To suffer well is a happy thought, uniting those escaped souls who would normally go crazy after being tortured to near insanity by Templar hands. Such finesse of inventing their own culture cannot be overlooked, right down to negating the differences between military and people in a tasteful manner, countering the ideas of Human conscription and Wolf warrior-states. As the soldier argues he defends the nation and the militiaman argues he prevents invasion, the Fox townships encourage every citizen to be armed under law of common sense and willfully organize under separate fighting forces, dissimilar to both the rank-and-file soldiers and versatile privateers. Perhaps it is why they, of all Keidran, suffer the fewest along human borders and flaws in leadership, as each citizen carries an air of being both an honest individual and capable shadow-walker, their individuality being far too precious to give up.

After all, good relations must be kept when dealing with other Humans, and the Templar know some individuals are not to be trifled with, especially when regarding a society still holding onto certain morals to never be crossed.

For all the Templar's wisdom and power, they tended to avoid the inner confines of Keidran forest, just as the tribes and villages did the same with any Human house. That is, unless one Keidran or Human foolishly built right alongside the property of their enemies. In this case, a lone man, lacking of normal vestments, somehow wound up right next to Misty Nevu, without the bordering Wolves and Tigers even seeing him enter the contested domain. This choice of placing the otherworldly Human so close to the town came from the reasoning that a true Keidran settlement might kill him and a pure Human settlement would be too far away to quickly fulfill her agenda.

]-o-[

Rebirth. Always is it painful. Always will you wake up in a life made easier from the skills acquired before, yet so incredibly difficult to master. Always will you end up flat on your back and feeling incredibly stupid from bashing your head. Still, the process repeated itself, traversing from one dream to the next, reaching for a better landscape to mold stone and spirit to one's liking. Why he ended up here, well, that was to only be known at the end of this new trial. The previous realm, teaching one to be creative and resourceful, a step up from the first life of the soul learning to control itself, held more dangers than this place, it seemed. Just how, he could not say, feeling the soft spring breeze upon his cheeks. For a moment he lay there, as tended to happen at the beginning of each new world, fighting off the stiff sleepiness of limbs after the transaction of being both resurrected and reincarnated, blissfully watching the sun pass overhead. It took but a moment for him to realize that this was no longer a dream realm held together by the minds of others just like him.

_This world is natural._

He recollected little beyond the sensation of actually having knowledge and purpose, a comforting emotion despite the fragments of memory left behind. There had been an explosion, the armor failing him, rending flesh off of exposed joints. That is all he could see of the past, having completed the final trial of knowledge and walking blindly into the dark forest to end his life. Not finishing all of one's goals and dying is true suicide, but this death had been a form of destiny. At the very least, the twisting shadows forming slender bodies allowed him to keep the painstakingly crafted breastplate (or what remained of it) and the priceless hybrid tool of being both a pick and a hammer, stripping away the ability to hold a finite number of items in his mind. They congratulated him, those very souls trapped by the collapse of _the end_, as they lifted his body up into the dimension of sky and heaven, their limbs stretching and forming a pillar of comforting shadow.

This is the path of a man who knows just how many times he has been reborn.

Fingers ran through dark, oily hair, and he felt there to be more of a pressure than just the hand's weight. Gazing at both palms, flexing all five digits, he discovered the silvery flicker of the craftsman touch had not been lost. This is good, he considered, as a man who shapes the world via the architect power shall gain good health and fortune. If this new realm was a sliver of anything like the last, as fantastical and deadly creatures tend to populate every sentient world, then poison and claws had to be shut out by stone and iron. More so, upon figuring this to be a Natural Realm, just like the nearly forgotten Realm of his first life, he understood death would not lead to the complexity of resurrection and reincarnation, but rather risking floating off into the heavens and losing touch with one's former self.

This is the power of a man whose spirit survived the collapse of the beginning universe.

Warmth, nourishment and water. Remove just one and no longer is a soul able to take existence for granted. There are those who fight through the loss, working tirelessly to regain and appreciate the missing necessity, and there are those who give up, their bodies found by a scavenger more appreciative of the meal. Lacking all three gave no room to idle, and he came to realize that the majority of rare and necessary materials he collected beforehand did not make the transition. Iron bars, gemstones, jerky slabs and gold ingots, all lost. A bit of scavenging with the hammerpick pulled up bits and pieces of materials close to where his previous life ended, including a bit of furry leather, several gold bars (deemed more or less useless) and a wooden crate, which he broke down and recrafted into a sturdy backpack. A tap of the enchanted pick twisted the rest of the leather into resilient boots and cuffs, as he preferred to put resources to immediate use and only store on his person edibles and tool replacements. Having loaded up all of the dropped resources, ensuring his shoulders could still bear such a weight, he strolled off in search of potential settling grounds.

A pathway just beyond the thicket spoke well of running into a village. Having knelt before various weeds and finding none to bear palpable seeds, he decided on reaching a market to purchase such a necessary resource. Thoughtfully chewing on a stalk, gazing off into the sky, he made note of the world's tilt before the sun, a skill picked up by any fieldworker. He smirked in satisfaction, finding the speed to be roughly similar to that of the Dream Realms, and figured it to be another seven hours until the day's completion. Unable to discern the probability of there being a settlement in the distance, he left the path and headed into the thicket.

By hand and pick he broke the soil, figuring it best to dig a temporary nest. Hiding in a hole for the night sounded a lot better than it appeared after all those years escaping monsters. Effortless strikes pitted the ground in less than a minute, bringing him two feet below the surface, where he stowed the rickety backpack to one side. Deeper he went, angled straight into rocks, carving a tiny cave to be partially filled in to hide him away. Ah, like old times, he mused, recollecting how each new realm of the Dreamscape began in roughly the same manner.

As he worked, a new question arose as to what material acted as (or at least substituted) the currency of this world. In a land of building and no centralized government, iron replaced stamp coins and complex trading methods, combining the best of capitalism and bartering. Iron ore, being so easy to find and having such demand, traded hands for the purchase of goods and to be smelted down by an individual's forge. The more notorious of the crafters, having adopted a Dwarven form, created infamous Metal Manors. After all, when trying to survive, intrinsic values were never discussed. Gold, being found as useful only in decor, barely carried on as a form of currency, as everyone treated it as change for iron. Not all cities frowned upon gold if they were of rich resources and safe havens, something he hoped carried over to this world, as he felt it better to hold onto other metals and part with the heavy and generally worthless material.

_Hmm. _The habitual noise of a lone man, developed by continuously speaking to oneself, caught up in his throat. He blinked, rubbed his neck and attempted to pronounce _'hello'_. _"Hallow,"_ it came out as a strained whisper, finding himself with vocal cords frozen. _"Hallow." _Had he been silent for so long that he lost the ability to speak? No, a bit of memory not lost during transition showed him shouting over a blast furnace at a friend.

Grimeye. Did the bastard still try to bed every woman he ran into? Knowing the pirate, possibly. The thought made the newcomer grin, although it faded recollection of his former name proved futile. No matter, a being of the Dreamscape picked up and dropped self-proclaimed titles on a regular basis. He would simply create a new one when inspiration struck. Having been reborn hundreds of times over what felt to be centuries, landing backwards and picking a name on whatever crossed his vision first, he depleted all options to be known as Lord Stick for the twelfth time.

Satisfied with the one man cavern, he popped up out of the hole for a breather, enjoying the vibrant scenery. Birds chirped amongst branches of several shades of green. Tall grass hanging over the edge felt like silk to a cracked and calloused hand. Even the bipedal Fox fit naturally amongst the foliage. Ah, yes, what a refreshing- _Wait, back up a moment. Foxman?_

]-o-[

It took Gregory a good moment to understand just what he saw. There, popping out of a ground, a very dirty Human of wild hair starred back at him. The man attempted a cheerful greeting, waving and grinning in the warmest of ways, to which the Fox Keidran slowly returned. A Human, here, right outside Misty Nevu, where Tiger Keidran were known to hunt at night. "Sir!" he called, prompting the Human to look up expectantly at his stumbling approach. "Sir! You cannot be here!"

He had no reason to be wary of the lanky and unarmed fellow, yet the rather hurried expression had him lift an eyebrow. Leaning on the pick, tucking dry lips inward, he silently and complacently watched the Keidran. The creature leaned over the pit, waving a wild arm, beckoning him to follow.

"You're in Tiger Keidran hunting grounds! We have to leave!"

He could not help a slight smirk, recollecting the frantic villagers of the Dreamscape, the expression confusing Gregory. Still, learning about being in eminent danger provided no comforting thought as he lacked full plating. Unless of course this strange creature was lying, but he recalled none capable of having such frightful eyes. Out of the hole he rose, shouldering the pick and nodding at the one warning him.

Gregory remained rigid for a moment, taking in the seemingly Neanderthal of a man. Uncombed hair, powerful limbs compacted into a slim form, and smelling of the deep forest had him wonder if this Human was Human at all. They stood before one another for a good several seconds, the man looking down at the slightly shorter fox, both blinking in curiosity. Remembering just where they were, Gregory diverted his gaze and proclaimed, once more, they had to depart. He reached into the pit to pull out the man's pack, only to discover it immovable and tumbled on in.

"Ah!" Gregory wheezed, lifting himself up off the ground. "Sir, what have you in your pack? Gold bars?" The man's dismissive shrug surprised him, but not as much as being lifted, along with the pack, out of the hole. "Gold!" he chimed out, spinning on his digitigrade foot after being let go. "Oh, I see. You're a prospector! You'd be able to acquire a room at the Master's tavern!" That, and entice his master with a rich patron to overlook coming back empty handed of Tiger silks.

A prospector? Eh, why not? The man smiled and nodded, satisfying Gregory's outburst. Technically, having dug so much in his life (or rather, lives), he saw no issue in having the title. Admiring the Keidran's claim, including the sound of it working to his advantage, he knelt before Gregory, shouldered the pack's straps and patted the top of it. Reluctantly, the Keidran walked over to inspect for any loose bindings as he adjusted his scrunched up tunic. Again the man patted, tapping the hammerpick's point atop the oak frame, and repeatedly tilted his head as of to say, _Get on._ Unsure of what was to follow, Gregory boldly clambered onto the pack and nearly fell off when the Human rose to full height.

"Uh, yes, that way," Gregory replied to the man's pointing off towards the north. "But my weight will only slow us do-own!"

The Human ran, casually breaching the speed of a Wolf Keidran, still bearing a full pack of metals and the Keidran perched on top. Gregory grasped the straps and braced his paws against the wooden frame, bouncing along and avoiding having his toes pinched through the leather by clinging bars. Ears and tail waved against the current, and he could not help but grin, picturing himself riding a sprinting colt. Losing himself in the moment, Gregory called out, "Onward!" as he pointed the presumable caveman towards Misty Nevu.

]-o-[

Neanderthal, the people considered, watching the wild haired fellow blissfully speed through Misty Nevu. Not that they would shun a Human when there were Keidran about, but this one seemed to carry an uneasy air of potential savagery, not to mention a Fox slave sitting joyfully atop his shoulders. To find dark eyes calmly taking in the sights, contrasting against a rather stern and poorly shaven face, the townsfolk deemed him one of the more eccentric type. Everyone kept eying the queerly dressed man, half expecting him to start dragging those scabbed knuckles of his. Such is the reaction to any rural newcomer, especially with one so ragged. For a few minutes, it is all people discuss, after any stranger enters their domain. Let a half hour pass and everyone always returns to the repetitive nature of their lives - scrubbing windows and painting walls. This time, however, the newcomer's caveman appearance and carrying one of the rich family's slaves kept the rumors afloat.

The Keidran slaves, both working Fox and captured Tigers, did not quite know what to make of him. Having come from so many lives before, the wandering craftsman was not floored to discover anthropomorphic animals, but rather intrigued by their existence. To have him wandering through the markets run by the Fox Keidran, the ecstatic Gregory explaining the shops and booths, both startled and impressed the enslaved race to have such a bold and carefree fellow about. Between owner and servant, Human and Keidran, whispers floated about of a Wild One stepping out of the forest dressed as a successful yet battered adventurer, carrying nothing save a pick and a shoulder slung pack, not to mention being directed by a slave.

"A real Neanderthal," a grey haired merchant grumbled, watching the man jog through the marketplace.

"Mister Neander! Mister Neander!" the children chanted to one another.

"Isn't that one of _his_ slaves?" inquired the limping blacksmith to no one in particular.

By then Gregory had steered the Human away from the crowd and right towards the pricey establishment, one of many operated by Eric's family. Safely away from prying eyes, nestled in the orchard surrounding the building, the Fox Keidran leaping off the pack and guided the Human the rest of the way. They stopped shy of the glass and oak doors, the man admiring the rustic influence sheltered behind vines and branches, and Gregory hoping up the stone steps to proudly proclaim, "The Grand Inn of Master Eric!"

]-o-[

The traveler from the Dreamscape forgot how populated certain worlds could be. In hindsight, perhaps it was not the best of introductions to expectantly hold out a lumpy gold bar and wait for the Innkeeper to greet him. Gregory made to interject over the man's presentation, quickly hushing when the doors snapped open. The Human jumped in surprise and nearly dropped the gold bar. A spectacle-wearing youth, dressed in robes of velvet and silk, boasting a pipe to accentuate ego, stared back at them.

"M-master Eric!" Gregory stammered as he quickly bowed. "My apologies! The Tiger Keidran refuse to sell anymore silk to us, b-but look! I found a rich prospector looking for a room!"

Eric shifted the clay pipe around, contemplating the incredulously dirty (and smelly) man and the unmarked slab of gold. This made the newcomer visibly uncomfortable, if not slightly curious of the owner being a twenty year old. Gregory fared worse under the scrutinizing gaze, trembling and muttering apologies, only to be cut off by a chuckle. "You did well, Gregory. And you," he added, respectfully nodding at the blinking Human, smirking at how the man pointed at himself and mouthed, _'Me'? _"Welcome to my_ humble _abode."

]-o-[

The conflict between Wolves and Humans undoubtedly put a strain on all foreign relations, so it came as no surprise that Gregory returned empty handed. Even loyal slaves were being shunned by the fed-up organizing tribes, and anyone found wearing Templar insignia never made it past the borders. Gregory finding, of all people, a prospector, more than made up for the loss. The scraggly miners abandoned the old Empire after a shift in undesirable politics, fleeing deep into Keidran woods to claim the mountains, and hurting the government that mistreated them. The value of the newcomer's gold meant nothing in comparison to convincing him to stay and work for the family.

Of course, Eric's idea of enticing others into employment remained an incredibly taboo act.

It intrigued the Human greatly to learn that such metal could be worth so much. These people valued beyond mere decor and as an enchanting regent, as the innkeeper lead personally a troupe of Keidran servants is way. "A full month's rent is what you purchased yes? Ah, come, come, fetch the pack and pick of our friend!"

"You mean Mister Neander?" piped in one of the younger slaves before an older one had a chance to clamp a hand over her mouth.

Much to everyone's surprise, from the slave having let forth one painful insult, the man merely smiled and nodded. The fellow wasn't about to explain how the previous realm, let alone what that really meant, had everyone lacking a proper name beyond self-applied titles of Chops, Steambath and McSpanky. He had a name, now, a true one a man could enjoy, laugh about and even boast, as an entire town and now this slave gave to him! If only he do more than hoarsely whisper, "Neander, it has a ring to it. I like it."

As punishment, the young Dog had to carry one of the iron bars by herself, at least until a wiser servant pulled it away and sent her off to follow Neander with a broom. Grunts and groans echoed down the paneled hallway, as the supplies were divvied up and carried up the stairs. Neander made note of their march, not trusting the servants to try and waddle off with some iron. The gold and jewels, especially, were to be counted the moment he retired for the night. A tight grip and thin smile warned them all not to bother taking the hammerpick, to which Eric accepted as being worth more to a prospector than all the gold in the world.

For a moment he remained in the main entrance, silently watching Eric direct the Keidran about. At the very least the young man's strict leadership impressed him, and had he the ability to properly speak he surely would have commended Eric. Spinning about, the boy called, "I will have the servants prepare your bath. Surely you'd enjoy one after living in the wild, my silent friend!"

]-o-[

A bath. That is something one does not expect after living in caves. Hygiene barely made it to the list of priorities when given less than a lake to swim around in and constantly on the move to avoid giant spiders. Such a surprise for him was to find an isolated room of marble and the elegant trim of Corinthian pillars. At the innkeeper's insistence, to which Neander humorously admitted internally that he did stink, the man found little trouble in settling in.

"You've never seen this before?" the innkeeper inquired, smirking at the wide eyed traveler.

Neander's head shook. Before, a box of stone over a fire pit summed up the best of luxury. With marble and granite, this appeared to be heaven.

"Honestly," the blonde innkeeper dared, admiring the hint of this man through large spectacles, reasoning him not being remotely close to these lands, "I both surprised and not to find you so rich and lacking both scented soap and a Keidran to wash you." Clearly, the name was foreign to Neander, which he found humorously interesting. "A Keidran, good sir. A bipedal creature of beauty." Waving off to the slaves tending the bathhouse, he explained, "Those, good sir, are Keidran."

Ah, a name to be remembered. Keidran. It had a pleasant sound to it, much like his newfound name, he internally opined. Missing the little ditty about being bathed by such a creature, let alone the owner's potentially unhealthy fetish, he set the hammerpick to the side and slipped out of the dirtied leathers, not seeing the innkeeper's shocked expression for quickly ditching modesty, or the gathering Keidran with soap and brush in hand, and nearly dove into the warm water. To find the servants to be all women and the innkeeper giving a sly wink had him feeling a bit nervous. At least, given the curves of hips and chest, he reasoned them to be as such. They all stood at the edge, wide eyed at the hairiest Human they had ever seen, to which he felt they were merely impatiently waiting for him to take the bathing supplies. One Wolf yelped as he snatched the brush from her hand, and the fur about her cheeks tilted up to reveal a hint of blush when his head tilted in concern. Before he could begin scrubbing the small of his back, the Keidran piled into the tub and wrenched the brush away, for they had a job to do per the innkeeper's demand to wash him thoroughly, for entertainment and the fact he smelled. Too shocked to move under the weight of the slaves, all he managed was (to their ears) a cute little grunt when a Tigress began clipping his toenails and washing his foot.

They groomed, scrubbed and dolled up Neander in several different ways, before deciding to leave a shadow of thin facial hair and doing no more harm than trimming away split ends. It amused them all to find the man ticklish and squirm instead of trying to hide it. Manly and wild? Perhaps, in their eyes. Too absent minded to even attempt impressing them? That little quality they found attractive.

"He's like an overgrown child!" a Wolf known as Sasha laughed, rinsing soap from behind Neander's ears. "He needs to be taken care of!"

Yana the Fox smirked and nodded, still piling loose clippings into a bin for one of the male slaves to haul off. "No wonder Master Eric took a liking to him. He's a rare beast of Humanity!"

Krissy the Tigress merely huffed, having lost all appetite after scrubbing the man's foot.

"We do hope you found our company enjoyable," Yana said with a bow, following her compatriots out of the tub. Giggling she added, "Master Eric has a special gift for you tonight. We do hope the surprise will be most enjoyable."

Indeed, the surprise did arrive, finding the lone, bewildered man lounging against the side of the steps leading into the bath. Quietly she encroached, careful to not let paws and claws tap on the marble. Per the innkeeper's orders, this young traveler was special, and through the steam she could see why. Dark and wild hair, a shadow across lip and jaw, and a body matching the thin yet powerful posture of a Wolf Keidran, not to mention the layers of dirt and oily smell the other three spoke of in passing. "I see why my people have been calling you the Wild One," rose her trained voice of a lofty hue, snapping Neander out of his daydreaming.

A Human-Tiger hybrid? Unsurprising. One bred for physical  
attraction and practiced well in the art of elegant hip-rolling? He required a double-take. Rocket science may not be his forte, or a requirement to get what the innkeeper meant, but by the aether, he _really_ should have seen this coming. Already the Keidran slipped effortlessly into the tub, sighing as the water cloaked her from toes to waist, testing the Human's resolve.

"They say," Dianthe cooed as she shifted closer, "you were born in the wilds. That you are a Human more wild than the feral Wolves."

Neander tensed and blinked, finding her nesting against his arm. Warily he watched her, keeping track of where those claw-tipped fingers lay. He did not particularly feel comfortable with such rumors, nor did he enjoy Blondey dropping an erotic catgirl in the bathhouse just to tease him.

Enjoying how it bothered him in more ways than one, Dianthe gently drew her nose across his bicep. "You smell like a Wolf. Perhaps you are the missing link between our people." Resting the velvety fur of her cheek upon his arm, she gazed wickedly up at the frowning Human. "Do we not both walk on two feet? I could believe our races once being related."

A sharp exhale marked his quieted laugh, finding their shins intertwining.

Had she insulted him? Did he find her tone to be too idiotic and cliche? By what Master Eric professed, it seemed to be enough to have any Human patron melt in her paws. "If I you, I can leave," she offered, casually drawing a claw over his lips, shamefully bowing her head and mirthfully peering through silky bangs.

Oh, how that annoyed him, the faux posture of hurt feelings. Sighing in defeat, he leaned back and allowed Dianthe to snuggle against his frame. Attempting to draw her thighs against his own, however, caused him to flinch and hold her back. It took a bit of convincing to have him lean forward for a massage, the slae grinning at how he blushed and relented.

"You're back's so tense," she lightly scolded. "Have you ever had a massage before?"

His head shook.

Her palms swept over his sides, thumbs kneading and fingers pulling, earning a shiver under her touch. "For such a rumor of being beastly, you feel so timid. In fact," as she traced either side of his spine, "you act as though you've never been touched at all by a woman."

_Not by a cat girl, no,_ he thought, leaning forward to offer more access. He worked, he slept and he drank whiskey, something Eric noted to Dianthe, as all prospectors did. Despite not being of the Realm, Neander did enjoy the drink far more than Dwarven ale. That, and he and his former compatriots adored hacked through monsters at night, chanting _'do you like my sword'_ as a battle cry, but that bit of information didn't need to be revealed.

"I hear not many Humans liking whiskey. Master Eric loves it, though." Her face scrunched up in disgust. "I've never heard of a Keidran enjoying it either. Is it a favorite drink where you are from?"

No reply came from the man. Feeling Neander slouch, his elbows nearly slipping from knees, Dianthe rose out of the water and gave beckon to head for bed. Perhaps she used a bit too much of here well practiced touch. Eagerly he stepped, nearly walking out in the nude, with the Keidran hurrying to wrap a towel about his waist. As focused as he seemed when it came to her body and predicament, the Human lacked enough sense when it came to his own well being. That explained why he ran blindly into a township while looking like a madman's unstable professor and readily (if not absent mindedly) carrying Gregory around, not to mention being so oblivious to her entrance until she finally spoke. What a sight to see, the patrons and slaves mused, to behold a half asleep Neander treading along with pick in hand and Dianthe guiding from behind. It took several tries to find his room, as a visitor's key usually works for just one door, before he stumbled inside and nearly collapsed on the floor. Only after was he lying in bed, with naked rear pointing up in the air, did she lock the door and head off to find the innkeeper.

"So," Eric inquired, grinning up from the bottom of the stairs, "what did you find out about him?"

Dianthe sauntered down the steps, smirking back at her master. "You're still bigger, sir."

Eric's brow quirked. "That's not what I meant. And exactly how would you know?"

"Kat brags about you all the time," Dianthe replied, resting a hand to her hip and eying Eric up and down. "Unintentionally, of course. I've no reason to doubt her, yet."

"Oh, I am sure," the rich master sighed before managing both a humorous and stern gaze on the Tigress. "Do be a dear, though, and keep an eye on our guest. Consider it your main priority until he leaves. I'd like to know just why a prospector is walking through Keidran woods with enough gold to purchase even you."

"Doubtful," Dianthe huffed in pride. "But, it is as you wish." With that she turned back up the stairs, slipped into Neander's room and locked the door behind her.

* * *

**Author's Note: Well, here you go. For those who read this already, you will notice a huge update for the first chapter. I didn't like how its first iteration fell into place I still don't like how the second half of this chapter turned out. After considering the flow of the story, I decided to go with the approach of trying to make it a casual, interesting read and not dependent on unnecessary plot twists. Expect a lot of corrections later on. **

**The inclusion of Eric was a last minute idea, and I might rework it later one. I also planned to use Steve from Minecraft, but since he's such a powerful yet seemingly emotionless character, I decided to try out an original character. Who knows, it might work.**

**Right now I am contemplating adding Age of Empires themes, further connecting the idea of the once natural Hell Realms to the history of the Dreamscape Spirits (Minecraft guys), mostly because of _'Wololo.'_**

**Reviews are greatly appreciated. **


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